


I'll Be Waiting

by Ivy_Brooks



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel and Dean Winchester Get Married, Dean and Feelings, Dean-Centric, Domestic Castiel/Dean Winchester, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I am so sorry, M/M, Sad, Sad and Sweet, Sad with a Happy Ending, and i'm listening to sad music, it's one am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-12
Updated: 2014-10-12
Packaged: 2018-02-20 19:55:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2440997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ivy_Brooks/pseuds/Ivy_Brooks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean will wait. For Castiel, he always will.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> _This is the reason I shouldn’t write when I’m sad._

As soon as Dean wakes, he knows something's wrong.

Fourteen years down the line and even at fifty years old, Dean still has sharp instincts; sure, he’s a little fuller around the middle, and he needs his glasses to read, but his sixth sense is still as strong as ever.

And, usually, he'd wake with Cas' arm wrapped snug around his middle, the barest rasp of stubble at his back and the once-angel's legs tangled with his own. Maybe even a gruff 'G'morning' and a kiss, if he was lucky.

This morning, though - it's different. There's a coolness to the air that has nothing to do with temperature, and Cas' warm body isn't at his back. Confused, Dean turns to his other side, expecting the left side of the bed to be empty. It wouldn't be the first time the other man had gotten up to make breakfast before Dean came downstairs.

Except, the bed isn't empty. Cas is there, flat on his back, face peaceful. The beams of sunlight that filter through the curtains fall on the angel's face, making his aged features glow in the soft light. His hair - mostly grey, now - shines, silver and still just as thick as ever. Dean has always envied him for that (he can feel his own hair thinning in certain places, something he's never gonna be able to live down). Those lips, plush as ever, are slightly agape, pink and supple. It takes Dean a full three drowsy seconds to realise that no breath is passing through them. That's not odd though - Cas breathes through his nose when he sleeps. Never snores. Unlike Dean.

"...Cas?" He mumbles, voice raspy with sleep. The sheets rustle as he slides over, nudging Cas' foot with his own. The once-angel's skin isn't as warm as it usually is. "Sweetheart, you in there?

Castiel doesn't respond. On a whim, Dean hovers a hand over Cas' face, his wedding band glinting gold in the sun as he awaits the feel of warm breath on his palm.

None comes.

"Shit." Dean breathes. He sits up, leaning over his husband, shaking hands sliding down the shorter man's shoulders, running over the only body aside from his own that he knows with his eyes closed. "Hey - hey Cas," he cups the angel's still-face, thumbs rubbing soft circles into those cheekbones. "Talk to me baby - baby please."

His voice shakes on the last word. Unbelieving, he reaches to the bedside cabinet, shaking fingers enclosing around his phone before he dials nine-one-one, running his spare hand through Cas' hair. A calm female voice answers in seconds, and Dean could swear at her for sounding so damn at ease.

"Hello, 911, what is your emergency?"

"My - my husband," Dean bleats, his breaths harsh as he blinks back tears. "He's - he's not breathing."

The woman manages to get his personal info in record time - name, call back number, location - before politely telling him to calm down but God, Dean can't; he can't because Cas isn't breathing. He's fucking _dying_ , lying right next to Dean and no, it can't happen now. They've still got a good ten years, surely - to make up for all that wasted time. All the times Dean never kissed Cas - all those times he'd let Cas slip through his fingers.

But the angel is slipping now. And even Dean can't stop him this time.

 

\---

 

A heart attack.

That was what the doctors said. A fucking _heart attack_.

They'd faced down monsters, angels, demons, the goddamn apocalypse - and yet all it took to defeat them was one tiny blood clot. The bittersweetness of it wasn't lost on Dean.

Sam had come to see him in the intensive care unit, but Cas had been dead long before they’d gotten there. And god fucking dammit, as soon as he saw that mop of shaggy brown Dean had _collapsed._ He’d sobbed into his younger brother’s chest for a solid two hours, and Sam hadn’t let go, not once, and Dean – Dean was so damn grateful.

Because now, there was no-one left. No-one left to laugh together or grow old with. No-one left to kiss and whisper to beneath the covers. No-one left to hold and clutch at night.

No angel left to love.

 

\---

 

The funeral was on a bright, mid-June day. No downpour of rain to accompany the mood, no dark clouds overhead to mourn the passing of an angel. Just bright sun, buzzing bees and tweeting birds.

Cas would’ve loved it.

There weren’t many people who attended; their circle of friends was still as small as ever. Sam and his wife, Rosanne, along with Dean’s teenage niece, Mary. Charlie attended too; she had met Cas nearly twelve years ago, bursting into the bunker after her trip to Oz, scaring the living shit out of everyone when she popped up in the middle of Dean Cas’ bedroom.

Of course, it was just Dean’s bedroom now.

There was a small service at a tiny chapel, no burial – Dean imagined Cas would’ve preferred to have been cremated, as opposed to rotting beneath the dirt for the rest of time, still forever. Even after they’d stopped hunting, they’d kept active. Cas had turned to woodwork, crafting and constructing things. Simple things – chairs, bedside cabinets, tiny ornaments. Dean remembered the first time Cas had started; he’d called Dean down one of the bunker’s corridors and presented a rickety stool, grinning from ear to ear and covered in marks and digs where he’d accidentally scraped himself. He’d looked so damn happy, so proud, that Dean hadn't had the heart to tell him when that stool had fallen apart not two days after. 

Dean could still recall the faint trace of sawdust on the angel’s hands as they’d cupped his face and pulled him in for a kiss – and Sam’s resultant wail of terror when he’d followed Dean only to find them both basically dry-humping each other against a wall.

The memory brought a smile to Dean’s face. A small, sad smile.

In the end, he decided to scatter Cas’ ashes in the field where Dean had proposed, over eight years ago now. The memory was still as fresh as when he’d made it – Cas, with his reckless smile, sunlight streaming through his black hair as Dean slid across the chequered blanked they were sat on.

_“Hey Caaas?” He’d said, drawing out the syllable of Castiel’s name, leaning sideways to slump against the solid wall that was Cas’ side. The angel raised his eyebrows._

_“Nothing good ever happens when you say that.” Cas said ruefully, eyes narrowed. Dean shoved his shoulder, pouting._

_“Well I guess I won’t ask then.” Dean tipped his head, a silent challenge. The golden wheat stalks nodded around them, caught in the breeze. Defeated, Cas huffed. His eyes flickered up, caught Dean's for a moment, before his shoulders slumped._

_“Fine,” he gave in, “Go ahead. But we’re not having sex in a field, if that’s what you’re implying.”_

_Mock offense crossed Dean’s face, his other hand coming up to cover his heart in pretend shock. “Me? Have sex in a field? Who do you think I am?”_

_“Dean Winchester.” Cas deadpanned. Laughter bubbled up in Dean's chest, and then they broke into peels of it. Dean could remember how they’d collapsed into each other, rolling across the ground until he’d had Cas pinned beneath him, the sunlight catching his face mid-laugh, making the azure of his eyes sparkle, intense as they were in that barn all those years ago. And that’s when it burst out of Dean, a bird free of its cage - free of the confines of Dean's ribs._

_“Marry me.”_

_Cas’ laugh stopped dead, eyes wide, breath held tight in his chest._

“What?” 

_Dean licked his lips, reaching up to brush a stray hair away from Cas’ forehead, a movement born out of fondness more than necessity._

_“Marry me.” He repeated, feeling his face grow hot, but his intent grow, “I mean – why not be Castiel Winchester. Your name seems kinda lonely, all on its own – ”_

_“Yes.” Cas interrupted, before Dean could even finish. He ran his hand through the hair at the back of Dean’s head, wound his fingers into it. “Dean - yes, of course, you don’t even have to ask.”_

_Dean was sure his smile was going to crack his face, but he didn’t care. The sun was bright, the field was endless and quiet around them, and he was in love._

They’d rolled around on that damn chequered quilt for hours afterwards. Dean still had it, the red now a faded orange, fold lines permanent because of how long it had be sat at the top of his closet. Cas hadn’t known he’d kept it. Never would.

He found himself wishing that he'd taken Cas out on more picnics. 

With a twist in his gut, Dean pushed away the thought as he waded through waist-high wheat grass, still golden after all these years. He worked his way to the top of a nearby hill, beneath a ripe apple tree, a breeze working its way through his hair. Cas’ ash jar was tucked safely under his arm, smooth grey granite shining dully in the light.

“Remember this place?” Dean asked to no-one, “We _did_ end up having sex out here, so you still owe me ten bucks, ‘cause you betted we never would.”

Dean surveyed the field – endless and golden, the wheat shining and shimmering as the breeze rolled over it. Kansas was nothing but corn and wheat-fields, but they were still somehow beautiful. He sat down, crossing his legs beneath the tree, placing the jar in front of him, allowing himself to look directly at it for the first time since he’d been given it.

“Couldn’t even put you in a nice jar, huh?” Dean said. The grey jar said nothing in return, “No worries. You won’t be in there long, Cas, I promise.”

Dean took a breath, blinking back his tears as he ran his hand over his face. Shook it off.

“We had a good run, didn’t we?” he carried on, “Fun while it lasted. Hopefully you’ll be waiting for me when I get up there too – if I get past those big pearly gates, of course. What d’you think – would they let a guy like me into Heaven?”

He knew for a fact that they would – he’d been there once. But saying it out loud made him feel better. Reassured himself.

“It’s not the end. Not really.” He said, because it was true. It was just waiting. Waiting until he could join Cas up in that big blue sky. “You just better be waiting for me, okay? You wait for me, and I’ll wait for you. ‘S just waiting. Fuck, if I can spend forty years in Hell, I can wait on earth for another twenty. Then you can come save me again.”

He paused. Drew breath.

“Promise me you will.” He whispered, his voice being carried away by the wind. “Promise me you’ll come save me when it’s my time.”

The jar glinted in the sunlight. Silent. Another tear ran down Dean’s cheek.

“I love you.” He bit out, voice cracked and broken. Just like his fucking heart. “If you can hear me Cas, I fucking love you, and that ain’t ever gonna change, no matter what, you hear me? Because you – you were fucking everything. I was so bad for you, you know that? Your fucking _eyes_ and your laugh and the stupid tapping thing you’d do with your fingers when you were reading. Fuck, I bet you didn’t even know you did that, did you?”

There was a lump in his throat. His heart thumped too loud in his ears. An ache welled in his chest. Dean sighed, his breath shuddering as he pushed himself to his feet, picking the jar back up. His own reflection stared back in the hard granite surface. He wiped a thumb fondly over the curve of the jar.

“Always thought I’d be the first to go.” He admitted with a bitter laugh, “Too many burgers and not enough exercise. Guess you won’t be round to nag me anymore – that responsibility has officially landed on Sammy’s shoulders, so don’t worry. I won’t get fat any time soon.”

Pain. That’s all it was. Pain and heartache.

With a massive lurch in his gut, Dean pulled off the lid of the jar, letting it slip through his fingers and thump to the earthy ground.

“Go on, Cas.” He said, voice faint. “You can fly again.”

In one swift movement, he’d thrown the powdery ash into the breeze. It caught in the gust of wind, spiraling off beautifully, like fallen snow as it swirled around a sunbeam and scattered away. Away from this life. Away from Dean.

He had no shame in admitting he fell to his knees and broke.

 

\---

 

Twenty five years later, Dean awoke in his bed to feel a warm arm wrapped around his hip. A searing kiss left at his shoulder.

“Good morning, Dean.”

Dean just smiled into his pillow.

“Morning, Cas.”


End file.
